


like liquid copper

by poisonandkerosene



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Flashbacks, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Past Abuse, Past Rape/Non-con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-23
Updated: 2014-04-23
Packaged: 2018-01-20 13:58:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1513061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poisonandkerosene/pseuds/poisonandkerosene
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everything is a test, in the end. It's a lesson that's been beaten and burnt into his skin.</p><p> </p><p>(written for this prompt: http://stevebucky-fest.dreamwidth.org/307.html?thread=890419#cmt890419)</p>
            </blockquote>





	like liquid copper

 

 

 

 

 

Living with the Captain – with Steve, he repeats the name a few times over in his head, like he sometimes still needs to, when his mind blanks again for a bit – is infinitely better than existing in their labs and in shadows only.

 

('-seems to not have worked, we need to wipe him again, immediately, Sir', 'subject shows an extraordinarily high pain tolerance as it is, further desensitization recommended', 'eliminate on sight, I want his brains splattered all over the place', 'make it seem like an accident', '-signs of volatile behavior, needs to be put back in cryo', 'then wipe him').

 

It's also so, so much brighter than the months on the streets, when he was lost and barely surviving, without a mission for the first time in... his memories are still a hazy mess with too many blanks in them. (It's only when the faint taste of copper registers that he realizes he's bitten down too hard on his own lower lip in a futile attempt to recall a time when his life was measured in more than targets and methods to end a life, in 'be good' and the way they used to set the blood coursing through his veins on fire when he failed to.)

 

~

 

Everything is a test, in the end. It's a lesson that's been beaten and burnt into his skin and bones, over and over until he wouldn't forget it anymore.

 

And so living with Steve may be better and brighter than anything, but he doesn't allow himself to be deluded into believing for even the fraction of a second that the grace period will last.

 

~

 

(The first night he's tried actually sleeping in the bed Steve'd made for him, he was woken up by gentle hands on his shoulders and this ugly, sickening noise that was his own scream.  
He's been scrambling to get off of the bed - everything was a test, and pillows and blankets weren't for him; 'back on the ground with you, now' one of his guards had growled at him, once upon a time, voice cold and hard, all while pressing the muzzle of a stun gun against his inner thigh 'or else' - and Steve had just let him curl up close, held him until the worst of the tremor subsided.)

 

~

 

Preparing breakfast is one of the little things he likes to do for Steve, a little way to pay him back for all the kindness.

 

And everything is well, until a flash of something (a memory, maybe, tinged in snow colored pink with blood, in too-bright flashes of light and burning, white-hot pain) tugs at the edges of his mind.

 

The cereal bowl he's been holding slips right out of his grasp, shattering into too many pieces, and he's made such a mess and Steve will be so mad at hi--

 

(Everything is a test, and this is failure and-)

 

Steve is there in an instant and he drops to his knees, muscle memory and instinct kicking in. And then, as a realizes that he does not know, has no way to anticipate or extrapolate whether Steve'd prefer if he cast his eyes down onto the tiled floor or look up at him, if he'll want his mouth warm and wet around his dick or just smack him across the face and maybe rough him up a little worse for a while, he freezes up with his hands halfway in the process of undoing Steve's fly.

 

Pain he can deal with, and being on his knees is easy enough. It's not like he minds getting hurt, no matter what issues Steve seems to have with that.

 

The thought of disappointing Steve, on the the other hand, it fills him with unease, makes his mind swim with dizziness. How could Steve ever forgive him for messing up like this (for everything he's ever done since '45, when Bucky Barnes ceased to exist and he became this monstrous thing instead) if he can't even get a thing as simple as this right?

 

Steve gently, with a care he does not deserve, peels his shaking hands off of his jeans and then slides down next to him with an easy kind of grace.

 

"Bucky" Steve says, and his voice may be barely more than a whisper, but his eyes are all steely concern. "Bucky, hey, no. You are home now, you're safe, remember? Your name is Bucky Barnes, and the year is--"

 

"Twenty fourteen. Yeah, l remember" is what he replies (and it's still hard, to try and wrap his mind around the fact that he even ever had a name), swallowing around the lump in his throat, flashing Steve a weak smile that he knows will never be enough to fool him, but he owes Steve, so he gives his all to try and be convincing, anyway.

 

Neither of them says a word for the longest while. The silence, to him, feels like a blessing. And just when his pulse is about to spike up again - because the kitchen is still such a mess and he's fucked up a simple enough thing again and how useless exactly does that make him? - Steve curls his fingers around his flesh-and-blood wrist, loose enough for him to break away from the touch if wanted to. It feels too good though, so he leans in to Steve a little closer instead. Steve carefully arranges an arm around his shoulders, then, and that feels nice, too.

 

"This okay?" Steve asks, quietly, worry and hesitation clearly evident in his voice. All he can do in response is nod and bury his head in the crook of Steve's neck, press a contend murmur against warm skin with his lips. It's still a little overwhelming, sometimes, re-learning that anyone would even care about what makes him feel good.

 

(He remembers fingers tangled into his hair, pulling hard enough to make it perfectly clear that this was punishment for failing to comply fast enough; remembers being ordered to get on his knees even when he hadn't screwed up, and the cruel laughter of the men watching as he tried not to gag around a cock that was being shoved down his throat, unceremoniously. And it's not like he's minded at the time, not when the need to make his masters proud was everything he knew, apart from maybe this haunting fear that worse kinds of hurts lurked in the shadows of the lab, should he fail to be good. But here, now, with Steve so very close, it makes him tainted, undeserving)

 

He's not sure how long they stay like this, huddled close, just breathing together. It must've been quite a while though, given that when he finally does manage to pull away to pick up the shards, the stains covering the floor have already begun drying around the edges.

 

Steve's smile, as he helps him clean up, it's all warmth, too.

 

"I don't wanna pry, Buck, I'd just like to understand what went wrong" there's a raw honesty in Steve's voice, and that hurts in all the same ways a knife wound to the gut would "So, uh, if you wanna talk about it, I'm right here. If not, that's just as fine, of course"

 

And it's not like he wants to keep quiet, if only because Steve deserves so much better than silence and this broken thing that wears his best friend's face.

 

Doesn't change the fact that his throat constricts at the mere idea of even beginning to explain, so he says nothing (maybe, he muses, once breathing doesn't feel like damn near suffocating anymore, maybe this is what shame feels like).

 

~

 

It's late that night, both of them freshly showered and curled up close on the couch, after a long day of exploring this brave new world together, and a longer evening sparring in the gym, no-holds-barred, pressing bruises which are already half-faded into each others skin, when he finally finds his voice again.

 

(He'd gladly bite his tongue until he tasted copper, if it weren't for the worried glances Steve cast his way whenever he thought it would go unnoticed.)

 

"Pierce. He would, sometimes, when I've been bad, make me. As punishment, y'know...'m sorry I freaked out earlier" the way Steve's arms tighten around him, ever so slightly, he thinks it best not to mention the other men who'd order him to open up when they wanted to have some fun of their own.

 

Steve touches his cheek then, all gentle and warm and it pierces him to the core, makes his heart thud hard against his ribs.

 

"You got nothing, nothing at all to apologize for, Buck. And to tell you the truth, I'm just glad the bastard is a rotting corpse, wouldn't know what I'd do, otherwise. Just know it wouldn't have been pretty."

 

~

 

(Everything is a test, is all he knows. But Steve treats him with nothing but pure kindness and warmth and maybe, just maybe-)


End file.
